


The Mask That Lies Broken

by mulbr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After Tom Graduates from Hogwarts, F/M, Time Travel, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulbr/pseuds/mulbr
Summary: Hermione travels back in time after Tom Riddle has graduated Hogwarts in 1945, with the intention of changing history. Time Turner AU, Post-40s-Hogwarts-AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is VERY AU. Still Magical, but ignores Tom's immediate employment at Borgin & Burkes due to the plot. This is a fic I'm writing to regain inspiration and to get my writing back up to par; a plot bunny that just wouldn't leave my mind. It will be updated sporadically. Don't expect scheduled updates. 
> 
> Thank you to alpha/beta Ava Safari. I couldn't have done this without you! You're amazing. 
> 
> All of that said, both characters will lean on the 'grey' edge, and I've decided to skip over the whole "this is exactly how Hermione got to the past, etc" because it's overdone and I don't want to beat a dead horse. She is not going to be OP or BAMF Hermione--she will be her usual self, albeit a bit intimidated once she realizes that Tom Riddle is a formidable wizard, much in the same ways that Voldemort was in her time. 
> 
> Tom will not be soft. Over the course of this fic, he will become more grey instead of outright dark, but he will NOT be soft because... no. Too OOC for me.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic. My alpha/beta and I are working on edits for Chapter 2, so that will likely come soon, but no promises. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

* * *

 

It was November in London; temperatures reaching a low point that made Hermione shiver. She was thankful in that moment that for one, she was a perfectly competent witch, capable of casting a warming charm over herself, and two, she was safely (well, as safe as she could be) nestled in her place of work in Knockturn Alley. 

Now Hermione would’ve never considered taking a job in such a sketchy, rancid place under regular conditions. But given the circumstances of her arrival and her purpose, she decided it was best that she place herself somewhere that her intended target would eventually show up. 

The intended target, you ask? Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

Hermione had spent a great deal of time researching time travel after the war—a war in which neither side won. The Order was gone, save her and a few others whose names were a blur now as she’d been in the late 40s for almost eight months now. Death Eaters were everywhere in her time, and she’d spent a few months on the run from them—as she’d become desirable number one after Harry and Ron’s deaths. They wanted someone to punish for Voldemort’s death, and she was the only living, proud Order member left to blame it on. Not to mention, she was muggleborn, which made them hate her more. Dogged in their pursuit of her as she tried to run, blend in, run, fight, blend in, rinse, repeat.

But now, she waited. Waited patiently for her target. 

She sighed heavily, internally thankful that her employer, Caractacus Burke, was on some sort of business trip, likely to find more artifacts for his shop to sell. He wasn’t a nice man, but he paid her a decent enough wage that allowed her to rent out a one bedroom flat above a bookshop, stock her kitchen and have a bit of extra galleons to set back as savings.  

It was 1945, the autumn after Tom Marvolo Riddle graduated from Hogwarts, and he was bound to enter the shop at some point. Whether to inquire about a job opportunity or to inquire about his mother’s locket, she wasn’t sure. She’d been patient, arriving  while he was still in his 7 th year at Hogwarts. She decided to refrain from attending school alongside him.

She came with the intention of changing something,  _ something,  _ she just wasn’t sure what yet. It didn’t help that all of her friends were dead and her intellectual mind had come up with several different ideas about how to go about such a situation as the one she presently found herself in. She immediately decided that attending Hogwarts with Tom would be asking for trouble. She’d inevitably insert Albus Dumbledore in her time-travel business, which she was most certainly  _ not  _ keen on. He manipulated Harry at an old age—and she could only imagine what he’d do with the information she’d known from the future if he came in contact with her for any length of time. She didn’t want to find out the implications of that, and as such, she set out into the wizarding world outside of Hogwarts. 

She decided on a rather simple backstory; she finished her schooling at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in America. She’d initially been home schooled by a pureblood mother and a muggleborn father in the country, but her parents fled Britain after Grindelwald had became a threat, and she finished her sixth and seventh years in America. Something no one would question, because of its simplicity. Regardless of her Gryffindor traits, she was smart enough to know when to lie to make it believable after almost a year on the run from the remaining Death Eaters. 

She’d learnt how to blend in and how to deceive. She’d learnt dark spells and counter-spells that young Hermione would’ve never approved of in order to defend herself from curses a non-sympathetic Death Eater might throw at her— _ did  _ throw at her when they had the chance. Then, she’d become someone she’d never wanted to become—a person whose instinct was to survive. Not a person whose life was based in morals and logic. A person who just needed to—just wanted to  _ survive.  _

She knew now, 8 months later (8 months in the past, depending on how you look at it), that she was feeling more like herself than before in the sense that she wasn’t just willing to survive; she wanted to change something. But she still wasn’t the same Hermione that had existed a year ago. _No_ , she was different. She wasn’t morally obligated to feel sympathy anymore. She wasn’t the same person she’d been before the war—before she’d watched her friends brutally die in front of her face, before she’d been chased for months by untamed Death Eaters who wanted her dead because she was a _mudblood_ and she was the only one left to blame for Voldemort’s untimely death. 

But, regardless, her character change made this task much simpler. Old Hermione would’ve told her not to meddle with time. Old Hermione would’ve told her that Tom Riddle simply wasn’t the Lord Voldemort she’d come to know in her time—which was partially true, but she didn’t want to hear it. She just wanted a plan. 

And so, she planned over the past 8 months in her spare time. She would get close to Tom Riddle—as close as she possibly could. She would influence his decisions and try to direct him in a less destructive path. She wasn’t sure how exactly she’d go about this yet, and likely wouldn’t be sure until she had some sort of interaction with him, but that was the basis of her strategy. 

She would try to keep him from killing Harry’s parents and so many other innocents, but she knew in the back of her mind that those were more than likely pipe dreams. She hadn’t met the young dark lord yet, but she could only guess just how far his good looks and stunning charisma would get him with anyone—anyone else but her. Anyone who didn’t know the truth about his true character, aside from his Knights. Death Eaters. Whatever he called them these days, who  _ reveled  _ in it. The thought made her shiver. 

She wasn’t sure how to present herself to him, which was a major part of the problem. Her intelligent mind couldn’t decide how to act in front of someone she’d never really met—only seen in memories and heard of from Dumbledore and Harry. Speaking of Dumbledore and Harry, they’d both made it very clear that Tom mastered the art of Legilimency at a rather young age—while he was still attending Hogwarts. Now  _ that  _ was a roadblock she couldn’t overcome easily. 

She was a mediocre Occlumens at best, something that infuriated the know-it-all younger Hermione in her mind, but something that 19-year-old, battle hardened Hermione knew she had to work around. She’d learnt of the technique when Harry was being taught by Professor Snape in their sixth year—and the rest of her interest and knowledge on the topic came from books. Book knowledge could only get her so far with this particular magical art, and she knew that.  The only reason she’d known that she was mediocre at the art was during a Death Eater encounter in which he’d clumsily attempted to perform Legilimency on her, and she’d successfully pushed him out of her mind. That prat had presumably been a terrible Legilimens to begin with, so that wasn’t much to go off of. 

Point being, her mediocre Occlumency meant that his superior Legilimency skills would likely pose a problem with her back story. She knew enough about Riddle to know that he wouldn’t just trust some random witch working in a small shop in Knockturn Alley. Hell—her presence in this timeline might even effect whether he ended up asking Burke for a job here; she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that striving for something different from the future she came from was better than not trying at all. 

She’d narrowed her options down during her 8 months in the past carefully, keeping what she knew of his personality and character in mind. 

She could insert herself romantically  herself  into the life of one of his Knights, most certainly disrupting the timeline by preventing a future being from being born. She would be able to keep tabs on him, but he wouldn’t listen to her. She’d be the saner equivalent of Bellatrix Black in that manner—he would recognize her power and exploit it. The only positive attribute to that idea was that he likely wouldn’t be interested enough in her back story to perform Legilimency on her, and though her Occlumency skills were rather mediocre, she was sure she could stand up to any one of his Knights at this point and protect the reality of her past at the very least. With all of that in mind, she’d decided against that. 

She could attempt to get close to him via colleague relations if he did, in fact, secure a job at Borgin and Burkes, but that still posed a problem. If he became interested in her due to her undeniably superior magical abilities to that of other witches in this time, he would be interested in where she came from. She couldn’t chance him taking her word—he would likely, at some point, want to know the whole story. Hermione was a good enough liar to get by with average witches and wizards, but she certainly wasn’t a good enough liar to pass the likes of _Tom Riddle_. 

That meant he’d catch on eventually and either demand to know the truth, perform Legilimency on her, or very possibly attempt to kill her. He wasn’t a school boy anymore, and she wasn’t someone whose presence would necessarily be missed in late 1940s magical London. In short, he would have nothing to lose by killing her. 

Her next option was so to be somewhat honest. Tell him she’s from the future, and that she’s here to keep him from becoming an insane nutcase who destroys the entirety of the wizarding world. There were several issues with this plan. He could invade her mind immediately after she told him the truth of her past, and then kill her. The only way she could prevent that from happening was to prove her power and interest in dark arts to him. She would have to prove that she, herself, would be an asset. Not just her knowledge of his future. 

Every option she considered posed risks. A lot of risks. But she knew something was better than nothing; trying was better than not. Sighing heavily and adjusting her thick black robe, she began to work through the paperwork Burke had left to her before he’d left on his trip to keep her mind off of the actual task at hand. Burke wanted the paperwork sorted and he wanted her to polish the dark artifacts within his shop. Thankfully, she was competent enough to do so without ending up cursed, and as much as Burke hated to admit it, he knew that. Sexism wasn’t as bad in the magical world as it was in the muggle world, but it still existed. She still remembered her interview with the grumpy old fellow and his questioning of how she, a witch, could be intelligent and savvy enough to hold a job in a shop such as his. He’d asked her to do a few random retail activities, then he’d asked her to determine whether or not a new artifact he’d recently received was cursed, and afterword, perform a warding spell to keep onlookers from being afflicted by the curse. Once she’d completed his tasks with no issue, he begrudgingly employed her and had even complimented her in a way. 

_ “Haven’t seen a witch your age with your ability in a while. What y’re doin’ here, at my shop, lookin’ for employment instead of headin’ to the ministry for a job, I’ve no clue, but I can use a competent witch around here.”  _

Hermione smirked at the thought of it as she waved her wand in a curt manner, sorting his paperwork as asked. Old Hermione had almost responded snidely at the considerably sexist, ridiculous remark.  _ Almost.  _ But Hermione just nodded her head and smiled thoughtfully, muttering a “thank you” followed by asking when she’d start. He’d ended up allowing her to start immediately, which was great for her. She’d had enough galleons to preserve her for a few weeks at best without a job at the time, all of which went towards her down payment on her flat and food to stock her fridge until she received her first payment from Burke. 

Hermione lazily looked out of the window, noticing how dark it was getting. She quickly performed a time-checking charm and realized she’d be closing shop soon. Burke wasn’t the nicest person by any means, but he’d said she was to close shop early until he returned because he wasn’t comfortable allowing a witch of her age roam around at night in Knockturn. Sexist remark, certainly. But Hermione wasn’t complaining. She still got paid the same rate while he was gone, and it kept her from dealing with one possible issue of defending herself against vile wizards interested in her in…  _ other _ , less appealing ways. The thought made her unconsciously smirk. She was positive she could easily defend herself in such a case, but again, it was something she wanted to avoid if possible. 

Almost thirty minutes later, she’d finished the remainder of her tasks for the day and prepared to ward up the shop and close it down. As she completed her closing duties, something told her to look out of the window. She wasn’t sure  _ what,  _ but suddenly she did. And when she did, she’d found her target. 

An aristocratic looking pale, black wavy-haired wizard was staring through the window of the store, tailed by a tall, somewhat bulky stark blond wizard that she assumed was a Malfoy. _Abraxas Malfoy._ She thought, which meant that the other wizard _must have been—_ something snapped in her and she realized how odd it she must’ve looked, staring at them from behind the counter of the shop. She realized that her mouth was slightly open as if she was gawking at them—but isn’t that exactly what she was doing?   
  
Before she could realize what was happening, the shop door opened and both wizards entered. The wizard she thought to be Tom confidently strode up to the counter, and she quickly realized how much taller and beautiful he was then she’d initially expected. She’d been told he was a looker, of course, but he looked as if he had been sculpted by a higher power specifically to tempt any woman looking in his general direction. 

“Hello, miss.” His voice was smooth as velvet, and his eyes were trained on her lifted wand-hand, paperwork gliding in the air in front of her. How stupid she must’ve looked then—awestruck by the fact that the man she’d been waiting for—literally just thinking of—walked into her place of employment. She tried to gather her bearings as quickly as possible, lowering her wand hand and avoiding his gaze by searching for the sure-to-be Malfoy, who was looking quite bored at the shelf directly in front of the counter—seemingly pretending to be interested in it. 

“Hello,” her voice came out shaky. He would likely assume it was because of his looks and charm—the arrogant prat that he was, but it was out of pure excitement that she’d  _ finally  _ gotten her chance. “is there something I can help you gentlemen with? I was about to close up shop, you see, and Mr. Burke is away on business—” 

 

“My apologies,” His buttery smooth, baritone voice interrupted her as he placed a pale, long hand on the counter. “I’m sure I won’t take up much of your time, Miss…?”    
  


“Hermione.” She responded quickly. “Hermione Sylvermore.” Malfoy’s head shot up at the sound of her last name, eyes narrowed with some sort of emotions she couldn’t quite place as his eyes quickly averted downward to the object he’d been pretending to be interested in for a while. 

“Well, Miss Sylvermore,” his deep jade eyes quickly looked down to her hands to ensure he was being as polite as possible, ensuring that she wasn’t a married witch to which he should address her differently, “I was only intending to inquire about an artifact. You see, my mother, years ago, sold Mr. Burke a rather valuable family heirloom. It’s not the prettiest thing to look at, a locket, golden with a green ‘S’ adorning the center, but it may still be in this shop, or he may have sold it. I was only wondering if you would happen to know of the whereabouts of this artifact?” his voice was so innocent in made her want to vomit. He really sounded like someone who was solely interested in finding out where his mother’s heirloom was, and though she knew that truly was the case, he was veiling his hunger for power with the idea that he actually  _ cared  _ about having something of his mother’s back, just for the sake of it. 

“I haven’t seen such an artifact here, I’m afraid, Mr…?” 

“Riddle. Tom Riddle.” 

“Right, Mr. Riddle. I’ve been working here for over half a year and haven’t seen such an artifact in this shop,” 

At this, Tom’s face fell in mock sadness, and Abraxas turned to face him as if he was ready to up and leave after finding out that Hermione could be nothing more than a half-blood at best with a last name like hers. “Well, in that case, I apologize for delaying your closing activities, Miss Sylvermore. I suppose my friend and I shall be on our way—” 

_ This is my chance.  _ She thought as he turned on his heel to leave the shop with Malfoy. 

“Mr Riddle?” she inquired, hoping he’d turn around with that same fake expression of concern. 

“Yes?” a faint glint of triumph flashed in his eyes, and had she not known his true character she may have dismissed it. But she knew she was giving him what she wanted. And she didn’t particularly care—as long as it started some sort of relation. 

“I—well, it’s not necessarily protocol and if Mr. Burke found out… well, I could lose my job. But, well, this artifact seems very important to you, so I could check his records and see if he’s sold it—and possibly find out to whom.” She did her best to sound shy and somewhat afraid—mainly at the prospect of losing her job for a stranger. Hopefully that was enough. 

“Miss Sylvermore, that would be—” he stopped, a grin crossing his face as he sighed in contentment, “that would be lovely. But I certainly wouldn’t want you to lose your place of employment here. Are you positive that you’re comfortable with that risk?” 

_ Absolutely.  _ Hermione thought in a victorious manner but kept her face neutral. 

“To be fair, Mr. Riddle, you seem to be very interested in the whereabouts of your family heirloom and I’d like to help as best as I can. If—if being a good person, if helping someone makes me lose my job, then so be it.” She saw the faintest hint of disgust cross his features at the idea of someone doing something just to be nice, just to be a “good person” as she’d put it. 

“Come ‘round the counter and we can check the office for his records. Maybe you’ll recognize a name.” Hermione invited, and Tom turned to nod towards Abraxas. 

It must’ve been a signal for him to exit the shop, and Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “Nice meeting you, Miss Sylvermore. And thank you for helping my dear friend, Tom, here.” He nodded once in her direction before exiting the shop. 

It took everything in Hermione’s power to remember that this was Tom Riddle, not yet Voldemort. It took every ounce of her being not to draw her wand on him, to remember that he was unassuming and just looking for Slytherin’s locket. 

He smiled disarmingly at her, and she fluttered her lashes at him in a flattering manner. “Right this way, Mr. Riddle.” 

“Tom,” He corrected as he rounded the corner of the counter,  “I think I owe it to you to ask you to call me by my forename in exchange for this type generosity.” 

Hermione grinned. “Tom, then. Now, Mr. Burke has his wards set up in such a manner that if someone without direct access to his records, being him or Borgin, does so, it alerts him. So we’ll have to be extremely careful about—”   
  
“I can take down the wards and replace them immediately after, if it helps any.” He spread his arms out in a helpful gesture, black cloak opening just enough for Hermione to see his black trousers and deep green sweater that lie underneath. 

_ Yet another chance.  _ She thought happily. 

“That won’t be necessarily. Allow me.” She replied, and as she did, she began moving her wand in the complicated movements she knew it would take to recede the wards Mr. Burke had placed over his records. She knew this would impress Tom somewhat. A witch near his age, capable of taking down such a ward, erected by a duo like Borgin and Burke? Surely, that would give her some pull with him. 

After a moment or two, the wards were down. “We’ve got a few minutes to work here. If you don’t mind me asking, what was your mother’s surname?” 

She saw a flicker of annoyance cross his face before he realized that he’d only told her his own name, not his mother’s name. “Gaunt,” he recovered quickly, “Merope Gaunt.” 

Hermione knew where the file was, as she’d been preparing for this scenario along with others for a while now. But for the sake of her cover, she pretended to not have any idea where the file was for a few moments. Eventually, the façade she erected crumbled when she decided to head for the correct file, while still seeming unsure of herself. “Gaunt, you say?” 

“Yes.” The excitement in his voice was building, and she was sure he was somewhat annoyed with himself for being unable to keep his cool when he was about to find out the location of his next planned horocrux. 

“Ah, here it is!” her fake shock seemed to pass over him without a thought because he’d seemed to be so entranced by the fact that she’d found the file—the file that would tell him everything he needed to know. He said nothing else, though, having gathered his bearings back and presumably waiting for her to read the file.  

“Hmm…” Hermione perused, reading over the file with fake intensity, as if she knew nothing of this information. 

“Well?” Tom’s prompt was soft as he stood in the doorway between the office and counter-clerk area, presumably looking over her shoulder. 

“It seems that Mr. Burke… well, I mean no offense by this, Mr. Riddle, but—”  
  
“Hermione,” he quickly interrupted, now bending down with his elbows resting on his knees. She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to be taken in by that damned beautiful façade. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Tom?” he all but whispered, and she found herself nodding quickly and inching away from him. She was sure this puzzled him, but she didn’t quite care at that moment. The proximity was too much for her at this stage. 

She cleared her throat, “Tom, then. Uhm—Tom, there’s no easy way of saying this, but Mr. Burke exchanged the locket for an extremely low price. He—well, put shortly, he robbed your mom out of at least a few hundred galleons.” 

Tom didn’t seem fazed by this—as if it was information he already knew this information or didn’t care about it. “Well, where is the locket now?” 

“It seems he sold it to a woman name Hepzibah Smith some years ago. Unless she’s given it away or sold it herself, it would seem that she still is the owner of the heirloom you’re searching for.” 

She quickly put the file away and erected the wards Mr. Burke had previously used around his office to ensure that she, nor anyone else, could access anything they weren’t supposed to. The only thing Hermione had permission to access in the office while Mr. Burke was away was the register and the bag of galleons that contained her salary for the duration of his time away. 

“I see.” Tom rubbed at his chin as if in deep thought, and Hermione returned to her place behind the counter. She looked out of the window again, only to see that night had indeed, fallen, and that Abraxas was standing outside looking rather cross as snow began to accumulate around him. She watched him wave his wand, likely to cast a warming charm and an umbrella charm, while he waited for his ‘friend’ to finish his business. Hermione barely held back a snicker. 

“Uhm, Tom?” Hermione inquired in the most concerned tone she could possibly muster. 

“Yes, Hermione?” 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” She hoped that the excitement in her own voice wasn’t too noticeable. He seemed to be lost in his own thought as he surely considered how to acquire Slytherin’s locket from Hepzibah Smith. She knew how that particular portion of the story ended in her timeline. She briefly wondered if she could prevent it from happening the same way again. 

“No,” Tom started as he buttoned his black robe back up, preparing to head outside. “But I’m wondering if there’s something I can help  _ you  _ with, Hermione. You’ve surely risked a great deal by helping me today, and I’d like to repay that debt. I remember you saying something about closing up shop, and I do not think a witch of your stature should head home at night alone in the throes of Knockturn.” 

Yet  _ another  _ male that decided she was too incompetent of a witch to—

“Please do not take offense to that, Hermione. I am well aware of your ability—at least to some extent, watching you take down and erect wards as quickly as you did,” a lop-sided smirk crossed his face, “but I’d feel much better escorting you home, at least as repayment for providing me with information I required.” 

Hermione blinked a few times before she promptly turned around to grab her beaded bag and her cloak. She did this in compliance with Riddle’s request, and also to contemplate whether or not he’d just read her mind. Did he know she thought he was a sexist prat for his initial comment? Or was it just a lucky guess? Maybe based on her body language, or—

“Tom.” A third voice entered the conversation. It was Abraxas Malfoy. “Would you like to head back to the manor now?” 

“I’ve actually planned to escort Miss Sylvermore home, Abraxas. She does work in Knockturn Alley and night has fallen. Given the information I’ve just received, I feel it is my duty to escort her to her home as repayment. I can meet you at the manor later on, if you’d like.” 

Abraxas nodded once. Hermione watched his expression change slightly as he watched Hermione put her black, thick robe back on and secure her small beaded bag in the pocket of her robe with a shrinking charm. “Why, it may be easier on the three of us to head back to the manor. Hermione, you’ve done a great service for my friend, here, and I’d like to extend my own favor to you as well. It’s barely eight in the evening. Surely, you don’t have a bedtime, do you?” Abraxas winked at her slyly, and she chuckled. 

“No, I don’t, Mr. Malfoy, but I would much rather head to my own home. I don’t know that I feel comfortable with two wizards I don’t know very well—” 

“Malfoy is a highly regarded name in wizarding London, Miss Sylvermore,” Abraxas started, “I can assure you, no harm will come your way, and no wizard or witch in my manor will attempt to disfigure your honor, if that happens to be your concern.” 

At this, Tom turned his head towards Abraxas and gave him what she could only consider a cold glare. It seemed Abraxas was the more…  _ forward  _ of the two of them, even if Tom was playing a gentleman only for appearances sake. Abraxas’ smirk immediately fell and he became silent, a harsh, barely there whisper coming from his lips, “The offer stands, Miss Sylvermore. I apologize if I’ve offended you.” 

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for Abraxas in that moment—something she certainly hadn’t expected. He was a pureblood. He had already made it clear, through his body language regarding her, that she was ‘lesser’ than him due to her blood pedigree. Her last name obviously wasn’t a Sacred twenty-eight name, so he cared no more for her than he did a muggle on the streets of muggle London. But something about the way Tom glared at him made him stop in his tracks, and while it amused her darker sense of humor, it also made her scared for Abraxas. In that moment, her choice was made. 

“I know the Malfoy name relatively well. You see, my mother was a pureblood witch; my father a muggleborn. I was home-schooled here in the country until Grindelwald became a threat. My mother and father moved us to the states, and I finished my education at a magical school there. Before that, though, my mum did brief me on the Sacred twenty-eight as part of my education. She was a Shafiq, you see—before she married my dad.” 

At this, Abraxas’ eyes widened. “No one has heard from the Shafiq’s in years.” 

“Well,” Hermione started, not sure how to continue with her cover-story since she hadn’t thought this far ahead.  _ How terribly stupid of you,  _ she thought to herself,  _ eight months to prepare and you still haven’t gotten your backstory set up completely? _

“My mum always told me that most of her family was gone. Her parents died in a terrible accident when she was younger, and she was home schooled by a family-friend, a… Selwyn, I believe? Anyway—most of the Shafiq family is extinct to my knowledge… aside from myself and my mother.” 

She knew lying to this extent was taking a big risk—dependent on whether or not this particular Malfoy cared enough to look into her backstory. His family could easily contact the Selwyn family… granted, they  _ were  _ a rather large, detached family from what she understood in her time, so maybe Merlin would grant her that one grace, if Abraxas did, by chance, decide to look into her background.

Abraxas’ face immediately softened as he seemed genuinely curious at this point. “Well, all the more reason for you to come to the manor. It’s always lovely to see another member of the sacred twenty-eight, regardless of whether they are of full blood pedigree or not.” 

Tom stayed silent on this topic—likely because he, himself was a half-blood, and because of Hermione’s story, she was now known to be a half-blood, too. It wasn’t enough of a jab to blow either of their facades as nice young men, either, so he let the two of them carry on in their dialogue as necessary.

“I…” Hermione chewed on her lip, trying to decide if she should bite the bait or not. It was unlikely that either of them would try to hurt her, and, worst case scenario, she could apparate away. Or stun them and run. Maybe. But… wasn’t this why she came to the past in the first place? To find an “in” into Tom’s inner circle—to integrate herself into that? 

She smiled softly. “Sure, I’d love to accompany you there. I would only ask that, when it comes time, someone escort me back to my own flat in Diagon Alley.” 

Abraxas bowed slightly, “Of course. Let’s be on our way.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am NOT JK Rowling and I do not own these characters. Just the plot of this fanfiction piece. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, Ava Safari, my alpha/beta, for helping me pull this chapter together.

          **Chapter 2**

 

* * *

 

 

   Malfoy Manor was entirely different in this time than what she remembered from her short time imprisoned there during the war. It was certainly grandeur and tacky in her opinion, that was for sure, but it wasn’t as dark as she’d imagined it would be. She’d closed the shop up as normal, and Abraxas and Tom had taken her to a floo point to reappear in the manor.

            Tom, she’d noticed, was regarding her carefully now that he’d regained his composure after receiving the information he was after. He was still very polite and gentleman-like, but he seemed slightly suspicious of her. For what reason, she wasn’t sure. Had he read her mind? Did her backstory just not add up to him? She didn’t have an answer to these questions—and that made her know-it-all miniature Hermione want to snap at her for even entertaining the thought of coming to Malfoy Manor, alone, with two budding dark wizards. Hermione had to admit, the thought made her want to gulp out of pure nervousness. But she kept her composure, knowing that she could at least outsmart a Malfoy in a duel if necessary and likely (hopefully) stun Tom if it came down to it.

            “Abraxas!” a woman’s voice was almost shrill with excitement, “It’s nice to have you home. I see you’ve brought Tom along. Hello again, Tom.” The woman, whom Hermione assumed was Abraxas’ mother, nodded to Tom. Her hair wasn’t as platinum blonde as Abraxas’, but it was damn near close to it. Her hair was a light honey blonde, her face as beautiful as ever; a buttoned nose with wide hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw line.

            “Hello, mother,” Abraxas acknowledged, moving to hug her which she happily complied to. As she peered over Abraxas’ shoulder, she seemed to notice Hermione. She smiled softly, while guardedly, at Hermione.

            “And who is this?” his mother questioned, a warning tone in her voice. Hermione imagined the warning stemmed from two things—the fact that Abraxas was likely engaged to be married, and the fact that she wasn’t sure of Hermione’s pedigree. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and continued to regard Mrs. Malfoy happily with a smile.

            “This, mother, is Hermione Sylvermore,” his mother’s eyebrows furrowed as she opened her mouth to say something, but Abraxas raised a hand to stop her. “Her mother is a Shafiq. Her family moved her from the continent when Grindelwald became a threat, and she’s decided to return back to the continent on her own accord.”

            Abraxas’ mother’s eyes softened at this. “I see. Well, welcome to our home, Hermione. My name is Luciana. I’m sure Abraxas has informed you of his upcoming nuptials—” she looked pointedly at her son with this statement before continuing, “but you are welcome here any time. Abraxas will give you a tour of the manor, and even if he’d like to see his intended, Tom knows his way around by now, too.” She winked at Tom, and Tom smiled lopsidedly at her.

            “Yes ma’am,” Tom simply replied. “I’d be happy to show Hermione around the manor if Abraxas would like to spend time with Astina.”

            _Astina?_ Hermione wracked her brain for the name—trying to remember what family she may have belonged to. The Abbots, maybe? Yes—the Abbots. She stored that information away quickly, a smile still plastered on her face.

            “Maybe you _should_ owl Astina, Abaraxas,” Luciana suggested curtly, “If Miss Sylvermore has just moved back to the country, having been homeschooled, I’m doubting that she has many acquaintances about of her own sex. Maybe she and Astina would get along quite nicely.”

            Abraxas nodded politely towards his mother. “Of course, mother.” And with that, Abraxas presumably went off to the Malfoy owlery, leaving Hermione with Tom and Luciana.

            “Tom? Please do be a dear and show Hermione around the manor.” Luciana advised, to which Tom nodded politely.

            “Absolutely.”

            Once Luciana Malfoy heard the reply she wanted, she turned on her heel going who knows where within her manor, deep sapphire colored robes adorning her slim figure twirling with her.

            “If you’d be so kind as to follow me this way, please.” Tom nudged, taking Hermione’s arm in his. Hermione accepted his arm cautiously, which he no doubt noted, and placed her other hand within her robe on the hilt of her wand for comfort.

She was alone. Alone with a budding dark lord. A man who had already killed. Who had already torn his soul into at least a few pieces. A man who—

            “This is the library of the manor. I’m sure that if you prefer to read and you and Astina become friends, you’ll likely spend some time here, as she likes to read as well.” Hermione inclined her head slightly to confirm that she’d heard Tom, but she was astounded at the size of the Malfoy library. She’d never seen it before in her time—of course, so seeing it for the first time was surreal. It was almost like Hogwarts library, although a tad bit smaller and less restricting in subject matter, she assumed. Her mouth opened slightly at the sight, and she had to physically fight the urge to enter the room after Tom closed the double, dark cherry wood doors.

            He noticed her internal struggle and smirked. “I presume you like to read, then?”

            Hermione smiled as they continued their walk down the corridor, apparently headed towards a grand staircase. “I love to read. Knowledge is power, after all.”

            Tom grinned slightly at her words, “Indeed, Miss Sylvermore, indeed.”

            It was silent for a few moments as they walked up the grand, deep cherry wood staircase. It appeared that Tom was planning on showing her guest rooms, in case she was ever invited to stay in the manor. “This manor is ridiculously gaudy,” Hermione’s mouth moved before her mind caught up with her, and she immediately clasped a hand over her mouth.

            Tom stopped mid step after they’d reached the upper level of the manor. He regarded her silently, but intently. She’d just insulted one of his Knight’s homes. She knew he wasn’t particularly attached to his knights, but it had to be an odd thing for a half-blooded witch to say. It _had_ to be.

            Unexpectedly, Tom began to laugh. Not just a chuckle, a true _laugh_ from his belly. Hermione stood in shock for a few seconds before her mind caught up, and she giggled along side him. “I’d advise you to never say such a thing in front of a Malfoy, but that _is_ a rather true statement that I’ve considered myself after being a guest here for many years.”

            Hermione tilted her head to the side. “He seems to follow you, not the other way around. So why haven’t _you_ mentioned it to him?” she was truly curious, and he smirked at her as they began walking down a hallway painted grey, adorned with different wall decors and a couple of portraits.

            “You’re quite clever… noticing that so quickly,” he noted slowly, “I prefer to keep confrontation to a minimum amongst my… friends. If we stay acquainted, you’ll learn that about me soon enough.”

            A snicker left Hermione’s mouth before she could stop it. She resisted the instinctive response to cover her mouth again. How many times had she almost blown her cover—revealed that she knew too much for such a little amount of time, barely a few hours, with these people? Yet another reason for Tom’s seemingly growing suspicion, and his eyes narrowed. She tried to recover her mistake quickly by saying, “I saw the glare you threw him in the shop. That didn’t seem non-confrontational to me.”

            He chuckled this time before stopping at one of the doors, likely a guest room. “Trust me, Hermione, you’d know if I was in a confrontational mood or not.”

            With that, he opened the door to reveal a guest room. It was gaudy, as was the rest of the manor, but was adorned with Slytherin colors all around. The large, king sized bed was covered in a green quilt and silver throw pillows. A silver colored loveseat sat in one corner of the room, along with a small black bookshelf. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed with a golden plaque along the front, likely embellished with a name that she couldn’t see. But after he’d let go of her arm and taken a rather comfortable position on the loveseat, she assumed that this was _his_ room when he stayed with the Malfoys.

            Hermione resisted the urge to twittle her thumbs as she searched for someplace other than the bed or the loveseat to sit. Luckily, there was a black and jade-green chair on the other side of the bookshelf, so she took to sitting there, legs crossed like a ‘proper lady’ in the late 40s.

            “I wonder…” Tom started, and then stopped. She knew he was trying to pry personal information from her. The look on his face was a carbon copy of the look he’d had in the shop. He shook his head slightly as he propped his feet up on the other side of the loveseat. “Hermione, you seem to be an extremely intelligent witch. Why waste your time working at a shop like Borgin and Burke’s?”

 _Here’s my chance._ She thought, excitement and anticipation building.

“Well—I… to be honest, I don’t know if I should say.” She wanted to appear shy, and he seemed to be buying it.

“I won’t judge you, Hermione. I’m just sincerely curious.”

“Well… I left my parents in America to come to Britain. You see, dark artifacts are much more legislated there, and, well—I have an interest in the Dark Arts.” She finished, allowing her voice to become a bit more confident as she carefully concocted the lie.

Riddle’s eyes darkened considerably, and his smile seemed genuine for the first time since she’d met him a few hours ago. “My, my, my, Miss Sylvermore, what an interesting turn this conversation has taken.”

“Not for my own use, mind you!” She scolded him in a, hopefully, believable manner. “Just… just to know what we’re up against, you know? After having to leave the country due to Grindelwald’s influence, I began to ponder on the idea of… well, I mean, what better way to defeat your enemy than to know and exploit their own tactics? My parents heavily disagreed with the idea, which inevitably ended in a conflict between the three of us. As such, I was allowed to move back to the country when I became of age, since Grindelwald is gone. They sent me off with enough money to last a few weeks and… here I am, eight months later.”

Her story wasn’t _totally_ false. Hermione _had,_ in fact, developed a bit of a fascination for the dark arts, and she had been sent back here with enough money to last a few weeks. Maybe that bit of truth mixed with a majority lie would convince him. Maybe—

Suddenly, she heard the door lock. Her wand hand held firm to the hilt of her wand, ready for an attack. Ready for something—

Within a blink of an eye, Riddle’s wand was pointed directly at her throat, just underneath her chin. “You are not who you say you are.” His voice was flat as his eyes narrowed, flickering down to her wand hand for a split second.

“You must take me for a fool. I’ve allowed you to come here solely so I could question you privately. I saw the way you looked at the two of us as we walked about the streets of Knockturn. I saw the look in your eyes as you recognized Abraxas—from where, I’m not sure, but I want answers. I watched you carefully when you looked through those files. You knew exactly what you were looking for. And no witch homeschooled and sent off to _Ilvermorny_ , of all places, would know how to take down such complex wards and replace them so quickly without so much as a blink. So, _Hermione Sylvermore_ ,” he whispered the name mockingly, “who are you?”

 _Fuck!_ Hermione thought as she gulped, inching her wand out of her robe pocket slowly. She knew he was paying attention to her wand, and she wasn’t sure how to get out of this situation without giving some semblance of the truth. She wondered dully if he felt her gulp against his wand. Likely so. But then, suddenly, her inner Gryffindor took hold and she was emboldened, even with a wand belonging to an extremely dangerous wizard pressed against her throat.

“Well, _Riddle,_ ” Hermione sneered, pushing her neck further into his wand as if to taunt him. His eyes were emotionless, but his face read slightly shocked at her boldness. “Aren’t you the _clever_ one.” _Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear. Don’t show—_

“Abandoned as a baby by Merope Gaunt at a muggle orphanage. Discovered to be magical by your _favorite_ professor, Albus Dumbledore. Top of your class in every subject. Asking Professor Slughorn about horocruxes with that _clever,_ charismatic charm of yours. Opener of the Chamber of Secrets; heir of Slytherin. Leaders of the Knights of Walpurgis, Head Boy in your seventh year. Killer of your father and his parents; framing Hagrid for the death of a girl you used to make your first horocrux and framing your pathetic excuse of an uncle for the death of your paternal family. Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle. Lord Voldemort, have I got it right so far?” Hermione’s anger was boiling over and she was sure it was evident in her voice by this point.

She couldn’t, no, _wouldn’t,_ be bullied by a young baby Voldemort, as far as she was concerned. The man she’d dealt with in her past (or future, depending on how you look at it) was _far_ worse and _much_ more dangerous than the man who currently had his wand pressed against her throat.

She knew he was far more magically talented and knowledgeable than she, even at this age. She knew he was capable of killing her at this age, but she found that in that moment, she didn’t quite care. She wanted to see him caught off guard. She wanted to see what the unhinged, unmasked Tom Riddle looked like. Even if it was the last thing she ever saw. Stupid as it may be, and as purely fucking _Gryffindor_ as it might be, she was ready for whatever should happen next.

Tom, for his part, was, shortly put, shocked. His mouth was opened slightly, and his brows were furrowed, trying to piece together _how_ this insipid little witch knew so much about him, about his crimes, what she could _do_ to him with this information, _especially_ if she was in league with Dumbledore, which made him hesitant to kill her. He knew there was something off about her the moment he saw her, the moment he watched her take down wards and claim to be homeschooled and from Ilvermorny, the moment he watched recognition register on her face as she took in Abraxas, the moment she—

“What’s wrong, Tom? _Cat got your tongue_?” she snarled at him and as she did, her wild, curly brown hair crackled with fierce magic. She continued pressing her neck further into his wand. As he’d been lost in thought, he’d been stupid enough to take his eyes off of her wand hand. _Her_ wand was now pressed into his stomach, and he had no idea what she was capable of. For the first time in his life, he was completely unsure of how to proceed. What the actual _fuck_ was he supposed to do with this witch? She obviously wasn’t scared of him—not in the way most people who knew him that intimately were. She—who the fuck _was_ she?

“Did Dumbledore send you after me?” He asked in a hard, yet curious tone. That was the only logical thought that he could come up with—the only person who had been suspicious of him since the beginning, and the only person who could play a game of cat and mouse so meticulously.

The girl laughed harshly at this. “No. I’m here of my own accord. I have no need for Dumbledore’s human chess games or his ridiculous plotting, that, I can assure you of,” Her wand pushed harder into his stomach. “Try again, Tom.”

His magic began to crack forcefully around her, and at this, he saw her eyes flicker slightly with panic. He sent a weak spell towards her throat, jolting her like an electric shock in order to take advantage of that panic he’d seen. She yelped slightly, but it was enough to remove her wand from his stomach, allowing him to step back from her.

“If you know me so well, Hermione, you know not to push me.”

“See, Tom,” she started, still slightly shaking from the weak spell he’d sent her way, “that’s the difference between you and me. I know nearly everything there is to know about you—your actions, your character, your personality. You know _nothing_ about me, and you know _nothing_ about how you and your insolent lackies have thoroughly ruined my life.” She snarled at him again, and her voice sounded more violent than he’d ever heard a woman sound.

Thinking on his feet, he flicked his wand and her beaded bag flew towards him. Before she could protest, he sent a particularly strong sticking charm in her direction, keeping her from moving whatsoever. He carefully examined the bag for wards and curses that would surely hurt anyone but the owner of the bag, and after he was sure that he could safely proceed—he began his search. His search for _something. Something_ that would allow him to regain control of this situation.

“Tom,” he distantly heard Hermione’s voice exclaim softly, all anger gone from her voice. But he was no longer listening. He needed to regain control. He _needed—_

The first thing he found was paperwork. Specifically, OWL results for a woman named Hermione Granger, born in September of 1979. _1979._

_A time traveler._

He quickly scanned over her results out of curiosity, seeing that she, a half-blood, mudblood, whatever she might be, received an ‘O’ in every subject except for DADA. So apparently, one thing she wasn’t lying about was her vague interest in the dark arts.

“Tom.” Her voice was more desperate now as she realized that he was finding out the truth about her, way too early on—too early, not in any way compliant with a plan she’d been planning for _eight fucking months_. She just wanted him to stop. It seemed that she, too, wanted control over the situation again.

Just her fucking luck that she was on the other side of the coin this time.

The next thing he pulled from her bag was a photo. A photo of her and two other men. One was most definitely a Weasley—red hair and facial features giving it away. The other, he wasn’t sure… maybe a muggleborn? Or maybe… no. He recognized the messy dark hair. A… a Potter, more likely.

He dropped her bag, disinterested in the rest of its contents, as he’d found out what little bit of information he needed to know in that moment. He could invade her mind and find out the rest, but he liked to think he was more merciful than that. He’d give her a chance to tell him the truth. One last chance.

He dropped the photo and the OWL results on the ground, flicking his wand once and burning them to ashes. She shrieked in anger at his sudden action, but he paid her no mind—not in that regard.

He sat back down on the loveseat, unsticking her from the chair but wordlessly sending a disarming charm her way before she could react.

Hermione’s mouth was wide open as she realized the consequences of the events that had just transpired. He knew she was a liar. He knew from the beginning. He knew she was a time traveler. He knew. He knew. He _knew,_ and not of her own accord. He had her wand, and while she was somewhat decent with wandless magic, nothing she could do to him would affect him so much that she’d get her own wand back. She had no choice but to comply now and hope to Merlin, God, whomever might listen, that he wasn’t going to kill her.

He held all of the power. The door was locked. He likely placed a _Quietus_ charm over the room, as she watched his wand hand move in a complex motion that she vaguely recognized. No one to hear her shrieks, cries, screams, whatever may come out of her mouth. No one had any reason to doubt him—not in this house. Not in Malfoy Manor. No one on her side.

“So, Miss Granger, I presume?” Tom’s voice was back to it’s calm, calculated, velvety tone, no longer stunned by her boldness.

She nodded mutedly.

“You’re a time traveler. A clever one, at that. Have you _really_ been waiting eight months to encounter me, or was that a lie, too?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “I travelled to this time eight months ago. I secured a job at Borgin and Burkes, knowing that you would do so later on in the year.”

“Why?”

“Because… because I—” Hermione paused, sighing deeply. “I needed to become part of your inner circle. I needed to integrate myself—”

“ _Why?”_ he asked again, his tone full of annoyance now. His wand was trained upon her again, and she feared a Cruciatus curse would come her way if she didn’t give him the answer he so desperately wanted.

She was silent for several moments, but it seemed like hours. Telling him the whole truth would take ages, and telling him partial truths may end with her dead, which may put the future in an even worse state than she’d left it in. So she decided.

“I know what you’re capable of, Tom,” she said simply, and his eyebrows furrowed at that.

“You’re not answering my quest—”

“Are you _that_ daft?” her inner Gryffindor came out again, a condescending look overcoming her face before she continued softly, telling him, “Look for yourself.”

He understood her meaning, but his magic roared around her angrily for being called daft. He most certainly was _not_ daft, and if she claimed to know as much as she said she did, she’d know that. Or she said it to get a rise out of him, which was much more likely. No, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t let himself be out of control. He’d just—

“ _Legilimens!”_

He flicked through her childhood memories, uninterested aside from the fact that she was, in fact, muggleborn. There was a block—a block preventing him from seeing much else, he was sure, elicited by her. But then, there was a woman named Bellatrix—Bellatrix Black, who had marked Hermione’s arm with the term “mudblood” on her arm. He’d have to check that later. He became aware that she was pushing a memory towards him—she _wanted him to see something, what was it?_ It was him, being brought back to life in an odd, ugly, strangely snake like body with nearly transparent skin. It made him recoil which likely caused more pain for the victim who was now thrashing underneath him, but he was too curious. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t stop. _What happened to him?_

Finally, a battle—a battle that happened at the future Hogwarts, led by _him,_ of all people, _he_ who considered Hogwarts his one true home, came to the forefront of Hermione’s mind. He noticed that his future-self had a fascination with a boy named Harry Potter—the identity of the messy haired boy in the photo with Hermione. His future self was _so_ fascinated by this boy, “The Boy Who Lived,” that he allowed that _child_ to ruin the remainder of his plans. Plans that far exceeded attempting to murder an infant because of a Divination prophecy. After the war, after this woman had lost so many friends, _all_ of her friends, he watched her fight for her life, fight for survival, for what seemed to be nearly a year. She became quick on her feet, more than proficient in dark spells and used her fair share of Unforgivables on “Death Eaters,” the new name for his Knights, he now realized.

He abruptly left Hermione’s mind, stumbling back to sit on the silver loveseat. He was panting, and as he looked at the time, he realized he was in her mind for much longer than he’d thought. Half an hour, at the least. Hermione’s chest was heaving heavily, paler than she’d been before, and looking as if she might be sick. All relatively normal symptoms of someone who’d just undergone rigorous Legilimency, willingly or not, for a longer period of time. She’d used Occlumency to fight him off at some point, _and_ to push a memory towards his psyche, which likely drained her magic to some extent. That aside, he now knew that there was something within her memories that she didn’t want him to see, and although the prospect made him curious, he was too absorbed in what he _had_ seen to give it much thought.

This is why she’d said that _he_ ruined her life. He ruined a perfectly sane, moral, happy young woman’s life because of his obsession with a mere boy. A damned _baby._ He cursed himself internally, not thinking about Hermione’s wellbeing. He had created a monster in her, a sworn enemy of his own, and even more so monsters in the others who actually _followed_ him. He created a woman who was willing to do whatever it took to survive, whatever it took to keep the future she traveled from from happening the way it did in her lifetime.

That’s why she was here. That’s why she waited so long. And now, he had absolutely no idea what to do with her. It was an odd feeling—he usually _always_ knew what to do, how to react. But in this scenario, not a single idea crossed his quick-witted, intellectual mind of what to do with the time travelling witch before him.

“Why…” she asked, panting heavily still, “would you burn the only evidence you have against me?”

“Do you have plans to return to the future?” he asked simply, rolling his wand around between his fingers. A headache was beginning to egg at him from being in her mind for so long, but he decided to ignore it for now. He’d call the Malfoy house elf soon enough for an ailment, once he decided what to do with this odd witch. 

Hermione rolled her eyes at the question she likely considered silly, huffing harshly as she tried to regain her proper mental state.

“I didn’t think so,” a smirk playing on his lips as he retorted to her silent confirmation of his idea that _no,_ she had no plans of travelling back to the future, “So why would you have evidence of your past—or rather, future, on hand if you plan to stay here and influence me in whatever way you can?” he chuckled harshly at the implication behind the end of his sentence. She thought she could influence him? _That_ was her plan this entire time? What a—

“I just—if you listened to me, you wouldn’t just save innocent lives in the future. You’d also keep yourself from becoming a—a—” she panted again, dry heaving in between pants. Tom made a face of disgust at her pathetic display of human reaction. Even though he knew she couldn’t help it, he still couldn’t help but be slightly revolted by it. “You saw for yourself, Tom. You’re a sociopath in the future. An obsessed, idiotic, sociopath. So much wasted talent. A waste of air. A waste of _space._ ”

Tom chortled nebulously at her assessment. He couldn’t necessarily disagree with her, because she was right, but in the same sense, he found a dark humor in her seemingly Gryffindor tendencies; he’d bet any money he’d had that she had been a Gryffindor; she’d tactfully kept him from seeing her time at Hogwarts, for what reason, he was not sure.

But, then again, he also couldn’t let insolence like this go unanswered, which put him in an odd position. Torturing her didn’t seem to work—as he’d seen in her memories, but that torture wasn’t exacted by him. It was exacted by a mad woman who wanted to cause pain just to cause pain, not to teach a lesson. He had no one to threaten her with, as she didn’t have family or friends here, and she didn’t seem to care for Dumbledore’s well-being whatsoever. He’d used her and her friends as pawns in his theoretical chess game. Even if she _did_ happen to care about Dumbledore _,_ he was in no position to hurt or kill Dumbledore. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he was strong enough to best the old fool as of yet. _That_ would just end with him being imprisoned in Azkaban.

“Maybe we can come up with a compromise.” He suggested, running out of options. His wand hand was twitching at the idea of torturing her, but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He could kill her here and now and no one would know—nor would they care, but he didn’t think that was the appropriate response now that he’d seen her purpose here for himself.

“What kind of compromise?” Hermione questioned, hands on her knees as she resisted the strong urge to hurl the meek contents of her stomach up from the fight that went on in her mind several moments ago.

“A compromise that benefits us both.”

“What are you talking about, Riddle?”

“A bond of some sort… something that keeps us from fatally harming one another. Something that—” he stopped for a moment, thinking though every bond he’d read about that didn’t require a marriage bond or an Unbreakable Vow. Most of the bonds he knew of required one or the other, and he didn’t want to make an Unbreakable Vow with Hermione because then, someone else would know her secrets. He wanted to keep those to himself. He needed to maintain some sort of c _ontrol—_

“No.” Her answer was curt, blunt and simple. “I will not bond myself to _you,_ of all people. That would completely ruin my purpose here.”

“Would it, though?” he questioned smartly as he twirled his wand in an attempt to keep himself from torturing her. He wanted to hurt her— _badly,_ but what purpose would that serve? It would only drive her away, and it would likely end with her outing him to someone. He was almost sure that no one would believe a random witch whose roots were questionable to begin with, but he couldn’t chance his image being ruined. He needed that control. “Would it _really_ ruin your purpose here, or would it possibly benefit you… or both of us?”

She spat blood from her mouth—blood likely spawned from the possible damage done to her by his use of Legilimency on her and her shrewd attempts at blocking him. He knew she’d kept him from seeing something—something that must’ve been important. But he was _Tom,_ Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he knew that with patience and time, he’d be able to exact the information from her in a less… intrusive manner. “I don’t want to do anything that will benefit _you_ , you sadist, evil, murderous bastard!” She all but yelled, a disgusted look adorning her face as she glared him down, and that, along with every other insult and show of disrespect she’d sent his way… _that_ was enough to make him snap.

“ _Crucio.”_

Her immediate screams satisfied his urge to _hurt,_ to _control,_ to make her understand how he would control this situation regardless of what she _thought_ her purpose was here. It was him who made the decisions, not her. It was _him_ who decided her purpose, and even when he’d tried being reasonable, even when he _tried…_

Her screams were becoming less satisfying as she was close to passing out from the pain of it all, and he abruptly stopped. _Pathetic._ He thought, looking down at her with disdain.

“Get up.” He commanded, wand still trained on her.

Hermione shakily moved herself off of the floor, tremors still wracking her body, and back into the black arm chair. She felt out of breath—out of air to breath. She felt like she’d die if he stopped—or if he’d have kept going. Her body was still trembling and as she could tell, he didn’t care. Why should he? What was she to him?

 _Think, Hermione._ She told herself, her body wracking viciously still. She had no idea how long she’d actually been under the curse, but it had felt like forever. Fire still burned through her veins even after he’d lifted the curse—likely a side effect of long-term Legilimency use along with a closely followed Cruciatus curse.

She couldn’t _think_ and that in itself was driving her mad. She needed to turn this back into her favor. Maybe she needed to consider his compromise. Maybe—

“Do you understand now, Hermione?” She mustered a glare as best as she could under the circumstances and sent it his way.

“That you’re just as crazy of a bastard as you were in the future? Yes, I do.”

He chuckled again, sitting back down on his loveseat and allowing her to calm herself for a few moments. His wand continued to twirl in his hands as he thought over his options.

“Why shouldn’t I just kill you now? By allowing me access to your mind, you’ve given me everything I need to succeed in the future.”

“Going through the memories I’ve shown you doesn’t give you what you need, but if that’s truly what you believe, kill me, Riddle.” Hermione tried spreading her arms open in somewhat of a suggestive manner, but she still could barely contain herself from dealing with the after effects of that night’s events. Her arms shook, and she was sure Riddle thought she looked deplorable, but she didn’t care what he thought. Not in this moment. She tried to cast a warming spell on herself as she was shivering and tremoring, not just from the spell, but she was also extremely cold. She had no idea why. She could barely lift her own wand and sighed after a few moments of trying to warm herself.

Riddle, knowing what she was doing, rolled his eyes exasperatedly and cast a charm on her himself. She instinctually went to say thank you, but closed her mouth, refraining her innately polite demeanor from taking over.

He’d just tortured her. He was threatening to kill her. She wouldn’t say thank you to _him,_ not after that.  

“I am an asset to you, Riddle—”

“I’ve told you to call me Tom.”

Hermione laughed dispiritedly, a sneer appearing across her face. “Well, _Tom,_ I’m not exactly inclined to follow the wishes of a wizard who’s just tortured me to shreds and ruined my entire life—”

“Hermione,” Tom initiated slowly, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes as his lips slowly curled into a smirk. He was acting as if he was speaking to a child, “You’re not helping your case at all. I will remind you of the question. Why shouldn’t I just kill you now?” He leaned in towards her, daring her to start with that back-talk again. _Daring her_ to give him a reason, just _one,_ to either kill her or torture her until she was an insane mess. Maybe that wouldn’t do, though. It would be a waste of such an intelligent mind, such a _useful_ and clearly _resourceful_ mind… but her insolence could not be tolerated.

He was looking her directly in the eyes now, dark jade eyes meshing in an uncomfortable, mutual glare with her light brown, almost hazel, round orbs. Their stare-down lasted for some time—likely only seconds but felt like an eternity, before Hermione finally broke the silence.

“Tom,” she started softly, her voice raspy from the torture she’d just endured, “if you kill me now, you lose valuable advice I could give you to prevent you from becoming—well, _that._ ”

Tom snarled and shook his head so slightly that had Hermione not been paying attention, she wouldn’t have noticed. “I am not so vain that I truly care about my looks, Hermione—”

“But don’t you think masses of people would be much more willing to follow a handsome—” _she almost barfed at the word— “_ charismatic, magically powerful man than… than _that?”_

“Am I not still powerful in the future?”

Hermione sputtered, “In my time, you’re unfortunately the most powerful wizard in recent history. But you’re also insane as can be from splitting your soul _seven_ times, Tom. What if—”

Hermione stopped; she wracked her brain for a solution she could appease him with quickly before he decided to just—

“What if there was another way to preserve your soul and—and possibly stop you from aging? What if we collaborated—what if we found a way to keep you from dying and kept you from aging at the same rate as a normal person?”

Tom stopped twirling his wand at this. His eyes were trained on her, and he felt a hunger for the type of power she spoke of immediately. But she knew this, didn’t she? She was manipulating what she knew of him—and fury began to build but then… then it suddenly stopped. Because in that moment—he wasn’t sure if it mattered that she was manipulating him, because an idea like that _was_ a damn good reason to leave her alive… for now.

“And how would we go about that?”

Hermione cleared her throat, desperate for some water. “We have access to the Malfoy library, for Merlin’s sake. You don’t think—well, there’s a possibility they’d have a book that could give us an answer, or at the very least, lead us in the right direction. I know how confident Abraxas is in you—he would gladly lend you some funds for travels—we could search libraries and villages around the world. It’s had to have been done by someone, at some point in history. It _has_ to be documented somewhere.”

Before Tom could respond, a soft ‘pop’ was across the room. They both turned their attention to the source of the noise.

“Master Riddle,” a tiny house elf bowed to him, and turned to her. “Mistress Sylvermore. Mistress Luciana asked Gurty to find out if Gurty could assist Master Riddle and Mistress Sylvermore in any way.”

“Please, Gurty, call me Hermione. If—if you wouldn’t mind, a glass of water, perhaps?” she couldn’t help her disgust at the fact that the Malfoy’s had a house elf, but what did she expect? This was a pureblood household, for Merlin’s sake.

“Gurty will fetch Mistress Sylvermore a cold glass of water. But Gurty cannot call Mistress Sylvermore—”

“Yes, Gurty, she knows. She’s just a bit hard headed, this one.” Tom smirked in Hermione’s direction before turning back to the little elf. “Gurty, if you would also bring me a glass of water, along with a few sandwiches for myself and Miss Sylvermore, that would be greatly appreciated. We will also require an potion—if you could just retrieve a contraception potion from the stocks, that would be lovely.”

Gurty blushed, her ears bowing in an odd fashion as she bowed towards Tom. “Yes, Master Riddle. Gurty be right back!” and with another soft ‘pop’, Gurty was gone.

 

“ _Excuse me?”_ Hermione’s teeth were grit as the angry words spewed from her mouth. “A contraception potion? You may be able to torture me Tom, but you won’t—”

“I thought you were the brightest witch of your age. _Pity_. If you were the brightest, the rest of them must’ve been idiotic to put it nicely.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed at this, torn between demanding an answer and defending her status as brightest witch of her age. But before she could do either, Tom spoke again.

“The contraception potion is to keep up appearances, Hermione. We wouldn’t want Abraxas or his parents thinking I’ve been in here questioning and torturing you, now, would we? They’d take no issue with two half-bloods, from distinguished families, courting each other. So, if we are to proceed with your plan—I propose that we… court each other during this time. We will say that we’ve grown fond of each other over the past few hours and plan to travel together. You’ll need to inform Mr. Burke of your whereabouts, of course, but aside from that, it’s fool proof. No matter if Abraxas or his family are unsure of your background—they will believe _me,_ rest assured. And I will continue this backstory of yours until you prove that you’ve lost your usefulness to me.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed again. “But, but—we’ve only known each other for hours. How could we—”

“It’s normal in this time for witches and wizards to court soon after meeting, especially at our age,” Riddle explained lazily, as if this were something she should’ve known, “neither of us are contracted to be married, so they’d more than happily assist a courting couple from two renowned families—Slytherin and Shafiq, with hopes that we would end up performing nuptials like Abraxas and Astina sooner rather than later, given our ages. Speaking of Astina, I suggest you form a relationship with her if this is to work. Keep up your background. This will only serve to appease Abraxas—along with Septimus and Luciana. She—Astina, is one of few witches who isn’t disgustingly infatuated with me, so you’ll be free to express… whatever you wish to express, within her presence.” He smirked at her as the soft ‘pop’ was heard again.

“Gurty is back with items requested by Mistress Sylvermore and Master Riddle,” Gurty placed the tray full of items on the coffee table in front of the loveseat Riddle was sat upon— “Is there anything else required of Gurty today?”

Tom shook his head. “You may go, Gurty.”

With another soft ‘pop’ Gurty left again. And Hermione was alone. With _him._ Again.

 _What the fuck was I thinking?_ She thought solemnly as she sipped from the glass of water Gurty left for her, _Maybe I should have gone to Dumbledore, just to have someone on my side—_

“I don’t have to use a spell to garner the gist of your thoughts, you know.” Those words broke her out of her thought process and her eyes snapped up to Tom’s, felling violated and disgusted at once. “Stay OUT of my brain—”

“If you go to anyone, Hermione,” Riddle started, sipping from his water, legs crossed with one calf over his knee, as if he was having a conversation about the weather with a close colleague or friend. “I will kill you. And furthermore—I will ensure that your future self regrets it, too.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped as she realized just how severely she’d underestimated 18-year-old Tom Riddle. She took a long gulp from her water, trying to calm her anxiety—trying to calm _something_ as her plan blew up in her face in more ways than one. Eight months of planning down the drain. She _had_ kept him from seeing her time at Hogwarts—kept him from seeing exactly _how_ the trio had destroyed his horocuxes, kept him from seeing his failed attempt to infiltrate the Ministry in her 6th year, kept him from seeing the odd, grotesque ritual he used to bring himself back in her 4th year, so she hadn’t _completely_ failed, she supposed. But—why? What—where did she go wrong?

She knew the answer to that question but decided to ignore it for now, standing shakily on her feet. “You promised to escort me home.” She reminded him, bending down to pick up her beaded bag.

“And you are in no state to apparate anywhere. You will stay here for the night—another reason I’ve asked for the contraception potion. It’s a cover up, Hermione. Lay down.”

“You expect me to _sleep_ near you after… after what you’ve just done to me?” her voice cracked and her magic began to roar around her angrily, but she felt herself jump when his magic reached out to touch hers. It was almost like an electric shock, but more… pleasant. And that in itself disgusted her to no end.

“I won’t harm you, Hermione. You have my word. Sleep, and we will take care of the rest of this tomorrow.”

She started to protest, but he’d lazily waved his wand before she could, placing a deep sleeping charm over her. Before she fell to the floor unconscious, he caught her in his arms. She was light, and as much as he hated to admit it, absolutely _stunning_ when asleep. She looked so… peaceful. He laid her down in his bed, pulling the dark green duvet over her, placing her glass of water next to her on a bedside table in the case that she was thirsty when she woke.

All things considered, she _was_ a powerful witch. The fact that she was able to continue arguing with him—the fact that she _wanted_ to continue arguing with him after being tortured to the extent he’d tortured her—spoke not only to her power, but to her character. She was bullheaded like a Gryffindor. Maybe there was a spot for a certainly bossy, powerful witch in his ranks. That would become obvious over the next few days, he supposed. He would test her, and if her memories were anything to go by, she’d pass with flying colors, surpassing even his most magically powerful Knights. _Death Eaters._

That’s what they were called in the future. He sneered at the name. How distasteful. His future self really _was_ insane, though he couldn’t admit that to Hermione—not yet, at least. Not until he was sure he could trust her—not until he decided that he most certain did not want to kill her, and he wasn’t sure about that portion of it yet.

With that in mind, he placed a simple ward around Hermione’s wand, keeping her from touching it even if she woke before him. He locked the door with a much more complicated spell than she could undo with wandless magic, and he transfigured his loveseat into a cot, before he finally fell asleep.

He dreamt of wild, curly hair—of a powerful witch beside him, _beside him—_ not beneath him like the rest of his Knights. He dreamt of claiming her in more ways than one. He dreamed of things he never thought he would, but he couldn’t stop the images from appearing in his head, as he was dreaming.

Tomorrow… tomorrow would most certainly be an interesting day for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the second chapter! Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. I appreciate the bookmarks and kudos I've received so far on this one--thank you all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! **waves shyly** 
> 
> I'm back! After a long semester of school and a lot of other shiznit, I have finally reappeared to start updating my WIPs again. Seven Sentences will also be updated soon. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Things will start to line up more in this chapter and the next.

** Chapter 3 **

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione stirred out of a deep sleep, subconsciously wanting to snuggle closer to the unimaginably comfortable pillow underneath her head. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she was awake, but she didn’t want to be. She wanted to sleep. She felt the silky duvet around her lower body and her mid-drift, which comforted her. She wasn’t used to such a silky, comfortable bedding. Where did she get this one from? She didn’t make nearly enough money for—

Suddenly, Hermione shot up, remembering exactly where she was, who she was with and whose house she was in. She looked around, noticing that she was alone in the room, but she could faintly here shower water running behind a door that she assumed to be the bathroom. A headache began throbbing at her head, reminding her of the events of the night before. Still a bit worried about the fact that she’d felt silk on her legs and her belly regardless of having worn a long sleeve sweater and women’s trousers to the Manor last night—she peaked under the covers. Her mouth opened in shock slightly as she realized that her trousers had been pushed underneath the duvet, and her sweater was pushed upward, leaving her lower half completely bare aside from her knickers.

She swallowed heavily. She didn’t remember falling asleep last night. Surely, even considering how dark a wizard Tom was, he wouldn’t have—

It was then that she noticed the slight buzz of magic over the loveseat. It seemed to have recently been transfigured back to its initial state, leading her to believe that, hopefully, Tom had elected to sleep there instead of in his bed, leaving her to sleep peacefully. Maybe she’d removed her trousers in her sleep. She’d been known to be a wild sleeper, so that wasn’t a completely illogical thought.

_My wand!_ She suddenly realized that it wasn’t underneath the pillow—as she normally slept with it in her hand underneath a pillow. He’d—he disarmed her last night. So maybe the wand was somewhere within the room… or maybe he’d taken it with him into the bathroom. Either way, she needed to get to it. Vaguely, she remembered that she was Mr. Burke’s only assistant at the moment and that she needed to get to work soon. It was still dark out, which let her know that she still had some time, but she needed to get dressed, and she needed her _wand_ more than anything.

Slowly, she untangled herself from the duvet and stood to her feet. She crept quietly around the room in search of her wand, wandless _Accio Wand!_ spells not working. She checked behind some books on the bookshelf, underneath the cushions of the loveseat and the armchair. Eventually, she decided to look in the trunk she’d noticed the day before.

Sure enough, the trunk was adorned with a golden plaque with the name _Tom M. Riddle_ across it. Without her wand, she was unable to perform some of the more complicated ward checking spells she knew, but it passed the few wandless ones she was able to perform. She began to open the chest, wincing in anticipation of a curse or hex that may befall her. She opened the chest fully, and nothing happened. There were few items in the trunk—likely because Tom had put most of his belongs up in the chest of drawers on the left wall. Surely enough, her wand was laying in the bottom of the chest. She reached for it, and—

The bathroom door opened, revealing a nude Tom Riddle, save for the towel wrapped around his waist. Hermione didn’t notice him at first—fully focused on her wand. As soon as her fingers touched it, she was flung back by an unseen force directly into the chest of one Tom Riddle.

“What the _fuck?!”_ Hermione exclaimed, angry that she was not able to touch her own wand. It took her a few seconds to register that it was Tom, not a wall, that she’d been thrown into. She slowly turned and watched a sly smirk spread across his face as she took in his present physical state.

She scurried off of him, causing him to chuckle. “What have you done to my wand?” she demanded, the blush that had developed on her cheeks from seeing a rather handsome, budding dark lord in such a state becoming more red than pink with anger as her embarrassment faded. In her anger, she’d apparently forgotten that she was only in knickers and a thin sweater. Tom didn’t move from his spot on the floor other than to lounge lazily there, his own wand twirling in his hand. She fucking hated seeing him twirl his stupid wand. The wand that tortured her last night. The wand that did something to _her_ wand, keeping her from touching it.

“What have _you_ done with your trousers?” he responded, his smirk growing wider as she suddenly became pink with embarrassment again. But she wasn’t going down without a fight—not this time.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” she crossed her arms, hip jutted out slightly in a defensive stance. “Never seen a woman in knickers before? Too busy planning the destruction of the world to—”

“Hush.” His next words were thick with contempt and he was standing now, one hand holding his towel in place and the other holding the hilt of his wand. “I only temporarily charmed your wand to ensure that you wouldn’t hex me upon waking up. I’ll gladly give it back.”

“Go on then.” She began tapping her foot impatiently, and he chuckled darkly.

“I’ll gladly give it back—once we come to an agreement of sorts. You see, Hermione, I had this interesting thought while in the shower and—while it may repulse you, I urge you to think on it as well.” He stopped, a finger on his chin in mock-deep thought.

“ _Go on,_ Tom.” Hermione pressed, just ready to get her wand back and get the fuck out of Malfoy Manor. Her headache was getting worse and she needed to get to a potion’s store and buy something for it. She needed out of here. She just wanted her damn wand back.

“Allow me to court you.”

And with that, Hermione promptly fainted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle watched on as for the second time, the time traveling witch, _Hermione,_ slept in his bed. This time, though, she’d passed out over the suggestion that she allowed him to court her. He snickered at that thought—every witch he knew would’ve simply died of happiness at such an offer.

But not her.

Because she knew who he truly was. And he’d ruined her life—in the future. He found that he didn’t care much about what his future self did to her, because it wasn’t _he_ who’d done it to her. Even if he had… he was almost sure he wouldn’t have cared. Not if it got him what he’d wanted, but his future self did all of this… everything… made ruin of Hogwarts and the wizarding world over a fucking _baby._ It was a pathetic thought—really.

It was now ten o’clock in the morning and she was surely being missed at work. Tom had asked Abraxas to send an owl to Mr. Burke, alerting him to the fact that Hermione had grown ill in Malfoy Manor and was being cared for there. Mr. Burke sent a simple reply back, threatening to fire her. Abraxas could have prevented that from happening—considering his own influence over Mr. Burke given his family’s long history of purchasing artifacts at his establishment, but Tom told him to wait. Abraxas was puzzled, as he had no idea of the events that transpired the night before but agreed to wait if necessary. Abraxas likely thought that they’d had sex the night before, given the cover story Tom had set up by asking Gurty for a contraception potion, and that Hermione was just too exhausted to go to work. Abraxas would’ve been able to cover for her—given the influence of his last name, but Tom wanted to wait until the witch woke up and gave him an answer.

As far as he was concerned, she wouldn’t leave this Manor until she gave him an answer. He’d been thinking about it all morning—keeping her close was the only way to keep her from outing him without killing him. Keeping her _that_ close was the only way to ensure that he had access to a witch that knew his future very well, from what he’d seen in her mind. Tom wasn’t one to care for his own looks—he wasn’t vain. But he did realize the kind of leverage it gave him over people—especially witches. He would like to hold onto that for as long as possible—and he certainly didn’t want to turn into that… that _thing_ he’d seen in her memories. If she could help him find a way around that—so be it. She—the time traveling witch.

            _Hermione._

She’d been asleep—passed out, actually, for two hours. It was time for her to wake up and answer him.

_“Reneverate.”_ He muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed she slept in.

Hermione shot up as she had the first time, knowing full well where she was. She looked down at herself, noticing her clothing had changed. She was in some sort of black t-shirt, and she prayed to the heavens that Tom hadn’t been the one to change her.

“Gurty came and checked on you after you passed out,” Tom started, voice sounding bored as ever. “She changed you into one of my longer shirts. She figured you’d be more comfortable that way—without your knickers showing.”

Hermione couldn’t help the blush that fanned her cheeks as she crossed her arms.

“My wand, Tom. I’m late for work and Mr. Burke will surely—”

“Fire you? Yes, he’s already threatened that via owl to Abraxas. Abraxas _could_ stop that from happening with a simple order from me…” he twirled his wand in his hands and, this time, watching him do so stirred something odd in her stomach. He was dressed now—a deep blue sweater and black trousers fitting his person perfectly. He looked up at her with a lopsided smirk. “All you have to do is answer me,” his mouth transitioned to a half-frown, “and please— _do_ try not to faint this time around.”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, arms slowly uncrossing and falling to her sides. She came here to get close to Tom Riddle. How much closer could she get than pretending to be his girlfriend? As revolting as the thought was, it was most certainly an ‘in’ to her purpose here. Maybe… maybe…

“Fine.” Was her simple reply, standing to her feet. “Fine, I’ll give you an answer.”

He waited for her to answer him patiently… and it took several minutes. He was about to curse her out of sheer anger of having to wait for so long, but before he could—

“I’ll allow you to court me, Tom. But on the condition that you keep my identity a secret.” Hermione then held out her hand expectantly, “Can I have my wand back?”

Tom smirked at her, “Swear to it,”

Hermione’s brows furrowed, “Swear to what?”

Tom huffed, irritated that this seemingly intelligent witch always asked questions that were seemingly obvious. “That you’ll hold to your word. That you’ll allow me to court you and act relatively normal, and keep my identity—my future identity, to yourself.”

“Then _you_ swear on _your_ magic that you will never reveal my true identity to anyone—including writing it down on parchment, alluding to it, or telling a portrait.” Her response was quick and clever, he had to admit that, at the least.

“I swear on my magic that I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, swear that I will not reveal Hermione Jean Granger’s true identity—or allude to it in anyway to any living being, portrait, or on parchment.” A silver glow wrapped around Tom’s wrist, and he had never relied on hope alone more so in his life than now that his intuition was correct. This could end up biting him in the arse, _big time,_ or it could end up assisting him in ways no other person could imagine. He kept these emotions to himself, his face a cool, calculated smirk in Hermione’s direction. He felt his magic bond to his words, which should’ve been proof enough for her. “Your turn.”

            Hermione swallowed lightly. “I swear on my magic that I, Hermione Jean Granger will court Tom Marvolo Riddle henceforth and assist him in all practical, moral ways. I also swear that I shall not reveal his future identity to anyone.” A similar silver glimmer wrapped around Hermione’s wand arm as she swore to date _Lord Voldemort._ If someone had told her this would happen years ago, she would’ve laughed in their face and likely hexed them for the implication.

But.

Here she was.

Tom’s smirk widened. “It’s settled, then.” He reached into his trunk and retrieved her wand. She watched as he waved his own wand around hers in intricate movements before handing it back to her. “There,” he chimed, “good as new.”

Hermione greedily snatched her wand from his grasp. “Don’t ever touch my wand again, Tom.”

Tom ignored her and began thinking ahead, “I was left a decent amount of money when my father died, once paternity was established,” he started, “you don’t _have_ to work there if you don’t want to. I’ve seen your abilities within your memories—you have many talents. It would be a shame to see it wasted; what, with you working at Borgin and Burkes as a counter-girl.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond to that, because her immediate reaction was to chastise him for even killing his father and grandparents—but she found herself oddly sympathetic towards him. What would she have done, had she grown up the way he had? What would she have done if her father had called her kind monsters—freaks, the like—

Before she could contemplate further, Tom pressed her on the issue of her employment. “Well?”

Hermione cleared her throat, reaching for her almost empty glass of water. After she’d taken the last sip, she looked up at him. “I was working there to secure some sort of relation with you. So it isn’t as if I need to be there anymore—though I would feel quite terrible about leaving Mr. Burke with no one to watch over his shop while he’s away—”

Tom waved a hand at her, dismissing her thought. “That shop has been closed before for similar reasons, before they’d secured a counter clerk. He’ll be fine. I’m not exactly sure why you care for him; it’s rather silly. He doesn’t seem like the type of wizard to treat a young witch of your age with any sort of decency.”

Hermione opened her mouth to defend Burke but couldn’t find the words. Tom was right—but Burke _did_ pay her a fair wage, despite being sexist and somewhat of a blood purist from what she could tell. With that thought in mind, Hermione gruffly asserted Tom, “Tell Abraxas to owl Mr. Burke and let him know that I accept his decision to let me go. We need to spend some time in the library anyway.”

            _You only worked for Burke to get close to Tom, Hermione. You can’t let yourself feel bad._

She had to keep reminding herself of this fact internally, otherwise she would feel like shit about leaving the man hanging high and dry, regardless of how sexist and rude he might have been.

“And regarding our courtship?” Tom inquired casually, as if he were discussing common cleaning charms with her rather than commitment to another person. Wizarding courtships were different from simply dating as muggles would, especially in this time period. She was sure that given her new identity, any purebloods she aligned herself with would push her to marry Tom at some point. They’d want to maintain two sacred houses, regardless of the “ _dirty blood_ ” that coursed through both her and Tom’s veins.

She wanted to vomit at the thought.

“That depends on you, Tom.” Hermione began as she summoned her trousers from underneath the duvet and replaced them with a more appropriate skirt for the time with a transfiguration spell, “I’ve only agreed to court you. It is up to _you_ to decide when and how that will happen, how it will be announced, if it even _should_ be announced.” She was silently hoping that he’d give her some time to process this—ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that reminded her that this was exactly why she’d travelled to the 40s in the first place.

 

“I’d like to introduce you to my… colleagues,” Tom began, twirling his wand lazily between his fingertips. _A gesture that would make anyone within the presence of his suffocating magical aura nervous._ “I shall set up a meeting tonight. And Hermione?”

 

“Yes, Tom?” Hermione all but grit out, unbecoming of the idea of meeting his lackeys that were likely already filled with the bloodlust she’d seen in her time. But this _was_ why she’d come.

 

“Be sure to begin looking for more suitable ways to spend your time. I shall not have my reputation tarnished with a partner of your intelligence working in a shop.”

 

Hermione couldn’t help but snicker at the irony.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 “Abraxas.”

The Malfoy in question swirled immediately upon hearing his name, falling from the lips of his Lord. His father, Septimus Malfoy, was within their presence, and as such, he knew not to address him as “my Lord” and simply “Tom.”

“Yes, Tom?”

“May I speak with you?” Tom inquired, a seemingly genuine look of concern gracing his face. Abraxas wanted to role his eyes but stopped himself. His father liked Tom well enough, just as his mother did—and it wasn’t as if they’d necessarily disagree with his plans for the wizarding world. They may even try to help—

“Abraxas,” This time, it was his father who addressed him. He looked to his father, pale, aristocratic features wrinkling with age. “I believe Tom asked you a question. Mind your manners, boy, especially amongst your friends.” The warning tone in his father’s voice coupled with Tom’s annoyance at Abraxas’ time staring off into space was enough to jolt him—and he found himself following Tom around his own home. Tom stopped in front of the library as the double doors opened with a wordless and wandless command. He gestured for Abraxas to enter first, and he did so. Tom entered behind him, muttering a silencing charm and shutting the door behind him.

“Take a seat, Abraxas,” Abraxas complied. In that moment, he was thankful that he was a Malfoy—taught from a young age to hide his true emotions. Had anyone else aside from his parents and likely his intended given him an order like this… he wouldn’t have been as compliant and would’ve likely cursed—

“I’ve a need to talk to you about something of great importance. I’ve decided to take Miss Sylermore as my wife. As of now, we are courting, but I plan to incorporate her into my plans. I’ll need you to owl Mr. Burke and inform him that Miss Sylvermore will no longer require employment in his shop, and I would like a meeting set up for tonight at the manor with our… friends.”

The word _friends_ sounded vile coming from Tom, Abraxas decided. But he knew better than to say as much.

Abraxas didn’t respond, his normally carefully schooled features dropping into a face of unadulterated shock as he registered the more important pieces of the statement. “Tom—surely you aren’t going to marry a witch you’ve just met yesterday? I mean—what does this do to further your plans? How—”

Tom’s look of annoyance stopped Abraxas’ inquiries in their tracks. “I didn’t ask for an opinion, Abraxas. I simply require that you owl Mr. Burke and inform him that Hermione will no longer work for him, starting immediately.” Tom’s tone was soft, as usual, but there was a demanding undertone accompanying it that made Abraxas mutter a “yes, m’Lord,” before he headed off to the owlery, wondering what in the absolute fuck could’ve happened overnight to make Tom want to marry a witch he’d just met less than twenty-four hours ago. Was it his business? Likely not—but he was a curious man.

“And Abraxas?” Tom’s voice stopped Abraxas’ steps in their tracks. He turned to face Tom nervously. Had he done something else to upset him?

 “Yes, m’Lord?”

“I would like for Astina and Hermione to become acquainted. She has become imperative to many of my strategies, and she’ll need some guidance regarding how to act as a—hmm, what do you purebloods call it? Ah—aristocratic. She’ll need some guidance on how to become ore aristocratic. I’m much too busy of a man to deal with this myself, you understand. Regardless, I’m sure your intended would love to take on a new project and possibly gain a new friend.”

Abraxas bowed his head slightly. “Of course, m’Lord.”

Tom nodded once back, and he assumed that he was to take his leave. Shafiq, Hermione may be, but he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she’d shown Tom over the past night for him to ask for her hand in marriage so soon. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for two half-blood wizards to marry quickly after meeting, but it certainly wasn’t within Tom’s character.

Abraxas pondered this as he walked towards the manor’s owlery. He vaguely remembered pushing Tom to court a pureblood witch to give him more resources. He’d sneered at the thought and had told Abraxas that his Knights provided more than enough resources—he didn’t need the help of a lovesick pureblood witch to succeed in his plans.

That had been the end of that conversation, but that was part of why Abraxas was so puzzled over this sudden change in… plans. No matter. If this is what Tom wanted, he would most certainly get it by whatever means necessary, with or without Abraxas’ help. He knew that now—and he’d rather stay on Tom’s good side than be on the worse end of his wand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Tom is cooking up a plot of his own in regards to Hermione! Heh. 
> 
> Don't hate me too much, guys. I love slow burns, but I can't write them to save my life. So if you want a slow burn, look elsewhere. I won't be offended--I promise :) 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter! I plan for this to be around 20-30 chapters, depending on what I decide to do about the length of each chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like the beginning of this fic! Let me know how you feel in the comments. Constructive criticism is much appreciated. Follow me on tumblr, mulbrst, for updates on this fic and other WIPs of mine. Thank you.


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